


Picket Fence Suburbia

by Naemi



Category: NCIS
Genre: Angsty thoughts, Crime, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 02:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4123213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naemi/pseuds/Naemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony is a master of flirting and pretending, and that's all there ever will be to those bright smiles and small touches they display in public. Nothing about Timothy McGee is the least bit what Anthony DiNozzo needs or wants in his everyday life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picket Fence Suburbia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reeby10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeby10/gifts).



> I'm known for taking prompts and running off with them, so I sincerely hope that the outcome is something you'll enjoy.
> 
> [Prompt chosen: “Tim/Tony, they have to go undercover as a couple and realize they have actual feelings for each other, lots of pining and thinking the other person would never want them, any rating.”]

 

A shrill sound pierces into Tim's not-so-sweet Dubai dreams. Meaning to snooze his alarm, he reaches for it, but knocks it over instead. Groaning, he grabs the device, resists the silly urge to shake or break it, and turns it off.

“Rise and shine,” Tim whispers to himself as he sits up. He still hasn't quite adapted to this new place, new routine, new everything, and every night he hopes that he'll wake up to a message calling them off the case. He never does; all he ever wakes up to is this horrible alarm and Tony singing (or what is the DiNozzo equivalent thereof) in the shower.

Attempting to escape today's interpretation of _I Shot The Sheriff_ , Tim pads to the kitchen and gets the coffee maker running, but the never ending high pitch of the song's chorus follows him everywhere, even outside when he picks up the morning paper. Despite his general grumpiness, a grin starts tugging at the corners of his mouth. Tony's “singing” is as charming as it's ridiculous.

Blinking against the sun, Tim tilts his head up to catch a few rays. It's a beautiful morning that should energize him, but stuck in the middle of white picket fence suburbia, he feels too much like a fish out of water to be enthusiastic about anything. Between infrequent check-ins with Gibbs and what little actual investigative work they can do right now, he has too much time on his hands for his liking. And while he can hardly get any more _in the field_ , he feels strangely benched all the same. He should be in the bullpen, trying to get around the classification on those files, or in the lab, helping Abby recover those hard drives they found; there, he would be of real use. Here, cooped in with Tony and acting merely as his accessory, his talents are wasted.

With boredom lurking around every corner, Tim repeatedly finds himself following a weird train of thoughts that raises questions—how, when, why—he doesn't feel comfortable asking. He dreads the answer, knows it's one and the same for all those questions. A single name that he isn't supposed to connect with something complex and personal. He never has before. He can't start now.

To keep his mind from venturing where it shouldn't go, Tim jumps at any distraction he can find. Basically, that has him playing housewife.

Weirdly enough, he doesn't mind at all.

“Mr. Collins? Mr. Collins.”

Tim's lips curl into a smile as fake as this identity as he turns to face his next-door neighbor. “Mrs. Prichard. Good morning.”

“And what a beautiful morning indeed. It's going to be a hot day, don't you think?”

“Hm.”

“Well, it is August after all.”

Mrs. Prichard giggles like a schoolgirl, a sound that highly contrasts the wrinkles of probably three lifetimes furrowing her face and bare arms. The woman considers herself incredibly funny and possesses not a single ounce of self-awareness. She's nice, all right, but like most people who outlived the dinosaurs, she is also terribly lonely, and for some reason, she decided to throw her 'love' at Tim the day Tony and he moved in. While Tony, who's spared any and all attention from her, finds that hilarious, Tim is this close to slipping the woman some pills just to get away from her. She seems to _live_ in her damned front yard, or else she wouldn't catch him every single time he steps outside.

“See, Mr. Collins,” Mrs. Prichard says with a look that might have been cute a century ago, “I was wondering if—”

“Here you are. I got worried you might have run off with a sweetheart like our dear Mrs. Prichard here.” Tony, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, stands by Tim's side and rests his hand lightly on Tim's shoulder blade. With his other hand, he wipes away a few droplets of water running down from his wet hair. Then he shields his eyes against the morning sun as he nods at their neighbor. “Good morning, Ma'am. And what a beautiful one, right?”

Mrs. Prichard doesn't even dignify him with an answer. She retreats into her house, where she immediately pulls down the blinds on the window overlooking Tim and Tony's rental property.

“Wow. Manners.”

“Some people aren't used to seeing half naked men in the open.”

“And some people”—Tony grabs Tim by the hips and pulls him close enough to whisper into his ear—“are watching us really closely right now. Again.”

Smirking, Tim turns around. Ignoring the sudden, uncalled-for flutter in his chest, he places one hand on Tony's neck, fingers grazing his hairline. “Good. Let's get you dressed,” he whispers back.

Tony laughs as if Tim said something incredibly naughty and pulls him inside the house.

~ ~ ~

“He always act like that?”

Even without following Gibbs's gaze, Tim knows what Tony's doing out in the front yard: showing off. Like he does every day when their neighbor—the suspect, not the dinosaur—is home and possibly watching. Tim looks out the window nonetheless. The afternoon sun catching in small beads of sweat on Tony's bare arms draws attention to the smooth play of his muscles as they move. Tim shouldn't find that sexy. Not at all.

But he does.

“Gotta catch attention somehow, I guess.”

“By acting like a horny peacock?”

Tim shrugs. “Mattos watches him. A lot. They talked a few times, which is more than I ever witnessed the guy talking to any other person. Myself included.”

“Funny. Should've thought you fit his profile.”

“I'm just …” Tim makes a dismissive gesture. He can say what he's _not_ , what he _should not_ be, but that's not for anyone's ears. Avoiding Gibbs's eyes, he looks out the window again. Tony is nowhere to be seen.

Gibbs picks up his tool box and shoves his baseball cap down so the visor casts a deep shadow on his face. “Progress, McGee. Fast. We should'a caught him _yesterday_.”

“Actually, I'm not … I'm not sure. Mattos might have a skeleton or two in his closet, but he doesn't seem like a big fish to me.”

“Do I look like I give a damn what he _seems_ like, McGee? Find out! And if he is our guy, then do whatever's necessary to nail that son of a bitch.”

“You got it, boss.”

Tim follows Gibbs to the front door to see him off and watch him climb into a white mini van with a plumber's logo on the back. As the vehicle rounds the corner and slides out of view, Tim feels strangely lost. Like a cast away on a wild and foreign shore.

_Whatever's necessary._

~ ~ ~

After living together for only twenty-four hours, Tony demanded “a classic.” It became an instant ritual. Every night they're not actively working the case, they meet in the living room to watch a movie, sometimes of Tim's choice, mostly of Tony's. They each curl up on one end of the couch and spend the evening in amicable silence.

For Tim, it doesn't matter much what's on. Instead of focusing on the story, he catches himself watching Tony most of the time. A few weeks ago, he would have laughed at anyone telling him he'd come to enjoy Tony's company so much. The man is nosy, annoying, rude, hypochondriac, spoilt … and so many good things that Tim lost count. While, over the years, he learned to tell the facade from the substance, he never could see Tony as clearly as he can now. The _real_ Tony, shining through in small gestures, tiny details.

While that's probably a nice development, the problem is that the longer they're stuck together, the less Tim can imagine being alone again. To think that Tony is his perfect counterpart, the one and only piece of the puzzle that fits, is beyond ridiculous. It's wrong, it's dangerous, and it's likely the exaggeration of the year, anyway. In addition, _nothing_ about this is real.

Tony is a master of flirting and pretending, and that's all there ever will be to those bright smiles and small touches they display in public. Nothing about Timothy McGee is the least bit what Anthony DiNozzo needs or wants in his everyday life.

Why that thought makes his heart sink so low, Tim refuses to examine.

~ ~ ~

Tony worked hard on being invited over, but that said invitation includes Tim comes as a surprise. Mattos has shown little to no interest in him so far, and he doesn't necessarily strike Tim as the guy who invites a “plus one” out of etiquette. Tony thinks he worries too much, and that “He just wants to see if you're cool.” While that is likely right, it doesn't make Tim less wary—especially not when it turns out they're the only dinner guests.

“A little welcoming gesture for you,” Mattos says at Tim's questioning expression. “I'll admit that it comes a little late, but better late than never, isn't that right?”

“Absolutely.” Tony's smile is wide. His hand on the small of Tim's back provides a steady pressure, as if to keep him from crumbling. Tim has the ridiculous urge to shake it off—he knows what's at stake and he isn't going to screw up—but the touch is strangely comforting, strangely gentle. A perfectly socially acceptable pretense of affection of which he craves more, despite better judgement.

During dinner, Tim engages in the conversation—about cars and more cars—the best he can, but it's obvious that he is, in fact, an accessory. Tony is the star of this show. That's okay. It gives Tim room to listen carefully, to examine his surroundings, and make dozens of mental notes.

The food is delicious—“My mother's recipe. She was an excellent cook; God bless her soul.”—and the wine flows maybe a little too freely. The increasing alcohol level releases their tongues and lets the conversation dip into the territory of “man talk,” but Mattos doesn't give away anything they could use. The guy is smart and careful, and Tim can't shake off the feeling that as long as he stays, they won't get any further.

Or maybe it's not so much a feeling as the observation of how Mattos treats Tony; how his voice softens when he speaks to him, how his eyes never leave his face, how his fingers find a reason to touch when he refills his glass.

It's still impossible for Tim to determine why he even was invited in the first place, but he knows for sure when it's time to invent wine-induced dizziness and leave.

Tony asks him twice if he should come, too, and when Tim keeps saying no, he gives him a peck on the cheek and tells him not to wait up for him.

~ ~ ~

_So how is it going?_

Tim looks down at Abby's text, the first in a row that all read more or less the same.

_What's happening there?_

He doesn't know what to tell her. They shouldn't be texting anyway. Although Tim and Tony aren't deep undercover, protocol forbids that kind of contact. Plus, Abby knows all the case-related details from Gibbs anyway, and Tim has nothing to add.

_Are you okay?_

Yeah. Apart from the lump in his stomach that refuses to go away, Tim is sunshine and butterflies.

Sighing, he throws his phone beside him on the coffee table. The house is unusually quiet without Tony being around, and the latter makes Tim antsy. What if they misjudged the situation? Miscalculated the dangers? What if Tony got himself into trouble while no one was watching? Only God knows where Mattos has taken him. From a seedy club to a private coke-and-hookers party, anything is imaginable.

The lump in Tim's stomach slowly rises to his throat. If something happened to him …

He doesn't know what he'd do if something ever happened to Tony.

A knock on the front door, soft but persistent, cuts into Tim's dreary thoughts. When he answers the door, he finds a brightly smiling Mrs. Prichard.

“Mr. Collins. You're home!” she says as she pushes past him. “Since your car isn't in the driveway, I thought—”

“The car is gone?” That's unexpected good news. If all else fails, they can trace the GPS.

Mrs. Prichard stops in her tracks. “But yes, my dear. Didn't you know?”

“I, um … Yeah, I know. I'm just a little … confused this morning. Didn't sleep very well.”

“The woes of an uncertain heart can be harsh on your sleep. I saw you walking about the house for the better part of the night.”

Baffled, Tim faces the woman. Her expression is soft and understanding, but something in her green eyes flickers coldly. Judgement? Disapproval? Tim runs a shaky hand through his hair. All of a sudden, he feels a little threatened by this fragile old lady.

“With all due respect, Ma'am, I don't think my heart is any of your business.”

“It's not,” she says casually. “Still, I can't help but notice that your _partner_ … He spends quite a lot of time with Mr. Mattos lately. That must be … troubling for you.”

Tim crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I don't—”

“I didn't want to tell you right away, you know…” Mrs. Prichard continues. “I didn't want you to think I'm badmouthing the neighbors—” she laughs, “—but as things have developed … You should know that this _person_ ”—she spits out the word like a bite of foul food—“is no good at all.”

“Well, thanks for the heads up. I still don't—”

Again, the woman interrupts him—“I only mean well, my dear.”—which makes him want to shake some manners into her. He has no patience for the nosy rudeness of the elderly. Especially not right fucking now.

“Mrs. Prichard, what did you want?”

“Want?”

“Why did you come over?”

“Ah, yes.” She pats Tim's arm lightly before turning to the kitchen. Too flabbergasted about her overall demeanor to even utter a single sound of protest, Tim listens to her rummaging the cabinets as if she's at home.

“I wanted to borrow some sugar, my dear,” she says as she emerges. “You have to come over and try my cheesecake. Believe me, you'll love it. It's to die for. You like cheesecake, don't you?”

“Um …”

Mrs. Prichard waves her hand about. “Who doesn't love cheesecake, right?” With that, she's gone, leaving Tim confused and more than just slightly annoyed.

Suburbs suck. Neighbors suck. This case sucks. Really, really hard.

~ ~ ~

“Looks like I have a new best friend.” Tony throws his jacket on the couch from where Tim picks it up to put it on the coatrack.

“About time. What happened?”

Tim receives no answer. Tony's features are tight: jaw clenched, brow furrowed. He's pale and he seems … anxious. Worried. He pours himself a drink that he moves from one hand to the other without taking a single sip.

“What happened?”

“Nothing special.”

“It's ten in the morning, you just got home, and you're having whiskey. I'm gonna ask you one more time: are you going to tell me what happened or do I have to call Gibbs to tell him it's not safe and ask him to pull us off the case?”

“You look tired. Did you wait up for me, even though I told you not to, my sweet McWorried?”

“Tony!”

As Tim reaches out to touch his arm, shake him, possibly, Tony turns away and downs his drink in one go. Tim's hand dangles in mid-air before it falls down by his side.

“I'm okay,” Tony says. “Nothing to worry about. Mattos parties hard is all. It was a long night.” He glances back over his shoulder to give Tim a tight smile. “And it included a strip club.”

Tim chuckles. “Gay or straight?”

Tony's face becomes unreadable for the split second before he quirks one eyebrow. “Let's just say that it was entertaining.”

“I bet,” Tim says darkly. As he retreats to finally catch some sleep, he pretends not to care at all.

~ ~ ~

What feels like a nightmare is brutal reality. Tim's had a few dreams about blood and pain and death just waiting to clasp his cold hand around an unfortunate soul, but every time, he'd seen Tony in his grasp; since Tim mostly flew under the radar, he'd never figured he might be in danger.

Neither of them saw it coming.

Squatted down by Tim's side, Tony presses a clean towel on the gash on Tim's abdomen. Despite constant murmurs of reassurance, Tim is convinced that he won't make it, but as he looks down, he realizes the blood hasn't soaked the textile yet. What feels like dying is probably just the shock. In the little corner of his mind that's still working somewhat properly, he knows that the knife neither cut him very deep nor was wielded with much finesse. A few stitches all around—belly, forearms, hands, his cheek—and he'll be as good as new.

“We'll get you patched up nicely. You'll see.”

Tim's chuckle dies in a cough. His unsteady gaze trails to where a white slipper lies beside the bare foot that belongs inside.

_“You deserve better, my dear. Why you choose to put up with any of this is beyond me. It pains me to see a fine young man like you squandering the gift that God has given him.”_

_“Once and for all: my life is none of your concern. And I suggest you leave me alone in the future. I'm sorry, but I don't want this kind of neighborhood.”_

Shattered pieces of a cake plate are strewn all over the floor.

_“I tried, Mr. Collins. The Lord knows I tried all I can, but … people like_ you _can't be salvaged. Not in this world.”_

At least, Tony got the bitch. What a shame that he killed her quickly, though.

“Hey, Tony,” Tim croaks out. “Wanted to tell you all the time … you're a lousy cook, but you make one hell of a …” Tim's voice trails away. His eyes flutter closed. He's so very tired. Seems like the painkillers start to kick in.

“One hell of a what?”

“Boyfriend,” Tim says without realizing. He's already crossing the verge to a deep slumber.

~ ~ ~

Silence lies over the bullpen, broken only by the sounds of Tim's rapid typing. He's all alone. It's well past midnight, but although Gibbs told him to sit down on his paperwork another time—“Take a few days off, McGee. Get some rest.”—Tim decided to get it over with right away. The past forty-eight hours have been long and exhausting, and he wants nothing more than to close that miserable chapter of utter failure and embarrassment once and for all.

Light footsteps approach. Even without looking up, Tim knows who it is. Somehow, living together has enabled him to tell Tony's presence immediately.

“Figured I'd find you here, since you weren't at home like you were supposed to be.”

Tim doesn't even look up. “Why did you go to my place?”

“I was worried about your well-being.”

“I'm okay.”

“And I hoped I could change your opinion about me, so I brought you some delicious homemade mac and cheese, which we both know is the only food I can cook well enough for you to actually eat it without complaining.”

Frowning, Tim straightens. “You're acting pretty weird, even by your standards.”

“Cut me some slack, will you? I'm trying here.”

“Trying what, Tony? To confuse me? Congrats, you succeeded.”

“I'm trying to make up for being a 'lousy cook' by being 'one hell of a boyfriend'. Thinking about it, combining the two maybe wasn't the smartest choice. Can't help that now, I guess.”

Despite the severe heat in his cheeks, Tim manages to maintain eye-contact. “I didn't even know what I was saying. I was completely in shock.”

Tony clicks his tongue. For the fraction of a heartbeat, his smile turns almost sad, only to turn even brighter the next moment.

“It's still true. And you make one hell of a boyfriend, too. Anything I can do to keep you?”

All of a sudden, Tim's heart beats right in his throat. “Let's start by tossing that mac and cheese and getting some actually edible food,” he spills without his mind's consent, but it's okay. It's now or never. He rather regret believing Tony meant a single word he just said than to let a real chance slip through his fingers.

“Sounds like we have a date.”

“Sounds like it.”

When Tony extends his hand to Tim, it's the most natural thing in the world to take it and hold it all the way down to the car.

**Author's Note:**

> Written during round 8 of the NCIS Ficathon.
> 
> Alpha read by the fabulous **Porter**. Beta'd by the wonderful **Moit** , who also made sure that all characters were returned unharmed.
> 
> [Feedback is love.]


End file.
